Books of Lore
by ElnaKernor
Summary: Supernatural one-shots and first chapters. 1) Angels are dicks. Literally. Because Dean said so. 2) Humans are dicks. Literally. And Gabriel want to know who got "Dean" bothered. 3) The real reason to God pretending to be human 4) first chapter of Scorched Wings 5) Dean has blood on his hands, but he's not a monster
1. As above, so below, part 1

_This will be a collection of one-shots and first chapters of all my Supernatural stories. First chapters will be pointed out, and if you can read it here, it will mean I'll have at least posted it separately to start the whole story._

 _Eglish still isn't my first language, and it will never be, because that's how things work._

* * *

 _Things happen. Dean names his dick Michael. Jimmy is apparently a hunter. No one has any shame. It's all the monster's fault, anyway._

 _And soon, the other way around..._

* * *

 _I don't usually write Destiel, but well. This was too good not to write. I'm sorry. I had to._  
 _Crack. Angels are literally dicks._

 _There will be a second chapter, one day, dealing with it the other way around ( Once upon a time in Heaven )_

* * *

 **As above, so below, part 1: Once upon a time on Earth**

Maybe it was the adrenalin, maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was because of that thing the monster had spat on them all just before getting beheaded by John. Maybe it wasn't because of it. Dean couldn't say, wasn't sure, and didn't care.

The sure thing in all of that was that it had happened, one way or another.

That night, Dean, Sam, their father John, and their friend and fellow hunter Jimmy, had finished a particularly dangerous hunt that definitely could have taken a turn for the worst, but hadn't. They had had a good fright, but that was it. Hence the adrenalin, and yet the perfect health condition.

That night, Dean had somehow convinced/abducted Jimmy to drink a beer in the Winchesters' motel room, instead of going back directly to his own motel room. They all were unable to sleep, anyway. Too much excitation with the hunt, and too much of a letdown with how easy it had been to end the monster. Dean couldn't let James just go to sleep like that. The other hunter had to celebrate with them.

John had taken off, in search of the beers they would share, with a raised eyebrow at his eldest son. Sam had rolled his eyes, and gone to take a shower. The two seemed to think, for some unfathomable reason, that Dean had a thing for Jimmy. Dean really couldn't see it, but whatever.

So now, the two hunters were sitting on Dean's bed, perusing an ancient book of lore about angels. They knew that angels didn't exist, or if they did, they didn't care much about good old Earth and humanity, but both Sam and Jimmy were interested in the subject eitherway.

James squinted at the text, thoughtful, before squinting back up, at Dean himself.

The younger man frowned at him.

"What's that look, Jimmy?"

"Just thinking you are very similar to the archangel Michael, in a way..."

Dean arched both eyebrows. He wasn't exactly a saint, so comparing him to an angel...

"What did you drink, mate? I'm like the poster boy for sins and depravity."

Jimmy scowled at him, reducing their personal spaces rather surprisingly. They were now eyes to eyes, and Dean was feeling a bit hot, as if James' gaze was burning him up.

"Extremely loyal to his father, keeping his younger brother in check in case he'd do something stupid, ready to sacrifice himself or his happiness if it is for the greater good, a soldier, a warrior, an officer when needs be. What else do you need?"

Dean didn't say anything. He didn't have an answer to that.

In fact, he was rather occupied with staring at the incredibly inviting lips moving angrily just a few inches away from his own. Dean's usual lack of self-awareness seemed to have flown out of the window with whatever was affecting him right now, because he now realized why Dad and Sammy were so sure his wet dreams were all about a panting James Novak. Hell, he was having freaking sexual daydreams about Jimmy right now. Let's just say it involved a great deal of dicks, and also the other hunter's ass. And his lips. And... And let's keep it at that.

James was still waiting for an answer, though. Dean forced himself to look up, to look at Jimmy's face as a whole, and not just at those beautiful lips, which he could so easily imagine eating at his hard co...

He was sure he could say something about not being like the archangel at all, but apparently he couldn't, because the words that left his mouth were totally not about that... Though about Michael, alright.

"Maybe I should name my dick Michael, then? What do you think, James?"

The look Jimmy gave him then was priceless. Like he had just said he wanted to go out, look for a female demon in a male meatsuit, and get him/her to do him in the ass for the rest of the night. Which was definitely not happening.

Truthfully, had Dean been in his normal state of mind, he'd certainly have blushed as soon as he'd have realized what he had said. To his best friend, at that.

But Dean wasn't in any kind of a normal state, mental or physical, and he didn't blush at all. His mind was clear, in a way, and he knew totally what he was doing, but it seemed all his inhibitions had gone away. Very far away.

If there was one thing he noticed, it was that Jimmy surely was at least a little affected too, because the man had yet to stand up and step back from his slightly crazed best friend who was talking to him about naming his penis after an archangel.

Before he knew it himself, Dean had crawled over to Jimmy, one hand flipping the pages carelessly, the other hand planted firmly next to his best friend. He could feel the other's man breath hot against his face, and that had Michael harden a bit. Who knew all he needed to make a move on James was a monster to spit in his face?

Jimmy didn't seem all that bothered by his action, only surprised.

Dean glanced over at the book, and smirked.

"You were born a thursday, right? I think your angel's going to be Castiel."

When Jimmy spoke, his voice seemed rougher than usual. Heavy with want, maybe. Dean sure could work with that.

"Always liked Castiel. But, Dean, it looks like Michael needs some attention on your part. Shouldn't you be out, looking for a girl to spend the night with, like always?"

Dean basically ignored that, pushing the book over the edge of the bed. It landed with a soft "poof" on the floor, and now the two hunters had the bed to themselves. Dean's free hand went for Jimmy's fly, but it didn't do more, only laying there, right above a bulge that the man could feel rising slowly, through the fabric of the pants.

"James, I'd really like to get to know Cas..."

Dean had that gleam in his eyes, that screamed of lust and want, and Jimmy gulped. No one called him James unless he was in trouble. Then he guessed he kind of was in trouble...

Two things happened then: first, Sam walked out of the bathroom, and snorted at them; second, John came back with the beers, and rolled his eyes at the younger men. Dean didn't feel ashamed at all, Jimmy neither, and oddly enough Sam and John didn't look awkward at all. Surely the work of whatever was working on their inhibitions, Jimmy decided.

John put down the beers on the table.

"Took you two long enough. But you should go continue what you were doing in Jimmy's room, because even if right now I couldn't care less, I'm pretty sure by tomorrow morning, I'd regret seeing my son having sex."

Sam scowled at his older brother, obviously sharing his father's point of view. Then his eyes flashed in anger, and he bent over to rescue the poor book who had suffered Dean's abuse.

"How did you even end up like that while speaking of angels, anyway?"

Jimmy arched an eyebrow at Dean, and decided to be frank.

"Dean has decided that all penis should be given the name of an angel, after I told him he reminded me of the archangel Michael."

Over at the table, John choked on his beer. No one was quite sure if it was in disbelief, in laughter, or in a mix of both. Dean almost asked him which angel he'd pick for himseld, but thought better of it. He had the feeling that, first of all, he wouldn't want to remember talking about that to his own father, and that secondly John was a good match for Michael too. If there was one thing the young man did not want to share with his father, it was a penis nickname.

Sam stared unimpressed at his older brother.

Dean squinted at him. He needed something to bring him down a peg or two, fast. Or at least, something that'd make him shut up for a time, just so that Jimmy and him could sneak out and continue their activities in a more suitable, more private place.

Then Jimmy's words came back to him, and Dean smirked, his eyes descending dangerously to Sam's midsection.

"And if mine is Michael, it would only make sense if my little brother's was Lucifer. Don't you think so too, Sammy? It would explain so much, actually..."

John didn't choke on his beer, this time, but it was because he had carefully put down his drink after the first instance. Sam seemed to have frozen in place. Dean was dragging Jimmy out of the room, and surely to the other hunter's own room. Then the door closed, and John allowed himself to breath once again. He tried not to laugh at Sam, nor to think about how Michael was certainly getting to know Castiel by now, as he cautiously reached back for his drink.


	2. As above, so below, part 2

_2nd part to As above, so below_

 _Gabriel just wants to know who got Michael's "Dean" all bothered. Just crack too._

* * *

 **As above, so below, part 2: Once upon a time in Heaven**

Gabriel spun his chair around, bored. There was no one home, there was no one at his neighbours', and Sophia was busy with her duties. He had nothing to do.

So, that's how it all began: Gabriel, youngest of the archangels, was bored.

Or maybe it all began when Michael came home, just a little later than usual.

It probably was because of both. Had Gabriel not been so bored, he might have overlooked that Michael was late. Had Gabriel not noticed the lateness, he may not have even glanced at his big brother. And had Gabriel not looked at his oldest brother, he surely wouldn't have seen what he saw.

Gabriel did a double take. This was not something that was supposed to happen. Heaven, he was almost certain God must have said something about it, because Michael sure seemed intent on not letting that happen. Gabriel was almost certain no one could pretend to have seen that before him.

In other words, Michael had a hard-on.

Which was so unlikely, Gabriel thought, just for a minute, that maybe he was hallucinating. Because, you know, an archangel having hallucinations was more likely than Michael getting hard.

"Mike? What's that?"

The other archangel raised an eyebrow at him, but didn't seem really fazed. Like he had no idea what Gabriel was talking about. So, either Michael knew exactly what he was talking about, and acted as if he didn't, just because that was what normal adults did, or the oldest son of God was denying it all. Which was more likely. Because there was no way Michael could be a normal adult who went around and felt all hot about someone else once in a while. There wasn't an angel more prude than Michael, and the guy had concurrence.

Because, really, between Raphael and some of the rank and file, there was much competition for the title of Prudence McPrude, mayor of Pruditown.

"What's what, Gabriel? And how many times did I tell you not to call me that?"

"Over thirty thousands times, I believe, Mike. And I was asking why your little Dean seems so excited."

No one really knew who had started that habit of naming their... private parts with human names, but in a few decades, no one in Heaven, guys as well as girls, had escaped the naming. People such as Michael, Raphael or Zachariah, obviously, hadn't chosen their own nickname, because really, could you picture them participating in something so childish? Gabriel and some others had been kind enough to supply for those who didn't want to be involved. As for the inventor... Gabriel suspected Balthazar, but there was no proof.

Michael looked at his brother blankly, and for a second Gabriel wondered if the Viceroy of Heaven could perhaps deny even that. Maybe Mike's brain had shut off all sexual thoughts on principle. Like the older archangel wasn't even aware of his hard-on. Was it that impossible?

After a moment, though, Michael looked down. He seemed annoyed to see that "Dean" still hadn't calmed down. It relieved Gabriel a bit. Dad hadn't made his oldest son completely clueless, after all.

"Basic reaction, Gabriel. You didn't think my body had absolutely no reaction to an attractive person, did you? Let's say Dean got a crush on James, and not talk about it again."

James, uh? Gabriel had no idea whose this one was, but he sure as hell was going to find out.

But before that, he needed to get a bit more information.

"Wait, Mike, you're telling me you have a crush on someone, but you won't say more? How cruel is that? Oh, maybe you're embarassed. Don't worry, I'll do the questions. What's his name, or his rank, maybe? Does James knows Dean likes him? Did you two have a good time? Did..."

"Dean got a crush, not me. I happened to see him changing clothes, but I didn't exactly stop to take a look. I don't think he even noticed me here. Now, I don't know, why don't you go pester Raphael, or wait for Sophia to come back? I heard she'd like you to take better care of her."

Gabriel snorted. Mike was trying to retaliate with the subjec of his own personal dominion angel, but he wouldn't rise to the bait. Sophia was his girlfriend, and he certainly knew more about her than Michael did.

"Neal and Kali are doing very well, brother, thank you for caring. In fact, they just fit together, if you see what I mean..."

Michael rolled his eyes, not intent on knowing too much of what Gabriel's "Neal" and Sophia's "Kali" were getting up to on their spare time.

"Whatever, kiddo."

And he shut the door to his bedroom behind him.

Gabriel was alone, again, but he certainly wasn't bored anymore. So Michael didn't want to speak about James and Dean's blossoming relationship? He didn't even want to acknowledge that if Dean had gotten all bothered today, it was certainly because Michael felt just the same? Very well, they wouldn't talk about it.

No, Gabriel was going to investigate, find this "James" and his affiliated angel, and then he'd dump him right into Mike's bedroom. Then they'd see if the crush was only "Dean"'s, or if Michael too wanted to get all hard and dirty and penetrative with another angel.

So, as any evil matchmaker with self-esteem and reliable CIs would do, Gabriel raced to Balthazar's humble abode. One minute, there was loud music and a lot of wine going around, the next an Archangel had slammed the front door and the guests had been sent out to their own places without warning. The perks of being an archangel.

Balthazar stared, puzzled, at his glass of red wine. Then he looked up at his big brother, indignation written all over his face. He had been about to convince three sexy reapers to take a day off.

"Ed needed the workout!"

Gabriel waved that away, still wondering why Balthazar had gone with the nickmane "Edgar" of all things, but well, he had more important, er, interesting things to think about.

"Big news, kiddo: Michael's getting hot for someone. I want to know who, and lock them in a room for a few days. You're helping me."

"I am?"

"You are."

Balthazar blinked, and finally everything processed to his brain successfully.

"Wait, the Viceroy got a crush?"

It was unthinkable, really. The first time Gabriel had told him about the existence of "Dean", the younger angel had looked at him as if he had swallowed an entire lemon. Balthazar had always thought that, for some reason, Dad had made Michael junkless, given how the archangel didn't seem to know what to do with his. Maybe God had only thought of genders after Michael's creation, or something like that.

Gabriel's and Balthazar's unsuccessful attempts to get the oldest angel in creation laid sure made it looks like it. Then again, maybe they hadn't been looking at the right people.

"Yeah, but he won't admit it. All I got from him was the nickname 'James'..."

Balthazar chokked on his drink, and Gabriel had to pat him on the back for a good minute.

"You know him?"

The angel chuckled nervously, lost somewhere between astonishment, mad giggling and disbelief.

"If I know him? Gabriel, that's Castiel. I'm the one who named 'James', because the guy couldn't get the point of this big joke."

There was a pause, as they both considered what it all meant. Castiel, of all people. Uh. They sure hadn't been looking at the right kind of potential lovers for the Viceroy of Heaven, then.

The two grinned, and before anything could stop them, they were on their way to get Castiel, get at least one or two layers of clothes off the angel, before Gabriel could dump him right in Michael's room, with a nice blue ribbon in his hair for Mike to see. No point in not teasing his big brother.

Michael was reading on his bed when Gabriel appeared right in his room with a clueless angel before popping out before he could be yelled at for intruding. Leaving the angel behind.

Oh damn. It was Castiel. Michael had to do his best not to get out and smite Gabriel's ass, just on principle. He instead focused on Castiel, who looked a bit distressed.

"What..."

Michael sighed, and stood up. He reached for the other's hand, and pulled Castiel against himself.

"Come here, I'll get this thing out of your hair."

The younger angel seemed to fit right between his arms, he noticed.


	3. The Prophet of Himself

_The reason Chuck gave to passing himself off as a prophet wasn't a lie._  
 _But the truth was so much more..._

* * *

 _Ouch, the feels!_

* * *

 **The Prophet of Himself, Chuck Shurley Lord of...**

Of course, when asked, Chuck Shurley would always pretend the answer was this: he had become "Chuck Shurley, Prophet of the Lord", because he wanted to take part into the upcoming events, without actually intervening. Being Chuck allowed him to literally witness the Apocalyspe, and even to be part of the events, what being God didn't. Even if he was only following the script, even he was playing along, and not really deciding the fate of the world, Chuck Shurley, Prophet of the Lord, could be a part of the story. God couldn't, not if he wanted the world to decide its own fate.

It wasn't a lie, per se. Of course, being right here, but recognized by no one, was great. Of course he could see the story from inside, and it was great. Of course, it allowed him to interact with a few key players, amongst them some he cared for, and he thought it great.

Even if only briefly, God had been delighted by meeting Dean and Sam Winchester. As he was omniscient, he knew everything there was to know, sure, by he didn't know them before that. It was a different thing to know about someone, and to know someone. If he had known exactly everything about everyone and what they would do with their life beforehand, God wouldn't have bothered with creating souls. There was no point meeting someone when you could predict their exact first words. Free will had been the key ingredient into making the world interesting, after all.

Sam and Dean Winchester... It had been like Lucifer and Michael all over again, only united with a single goal, and without the dangerous powers. There was no doubts that, had Sam and Dean been as powerful as their angelic counterparts, the world would have burned just the same as it had done with the archangels' wrath. The only reason Sam wasn't as twisted as Lucifer was that if he threw a temper tantrum, it wasn't so terrible that only four entities in the universe could stop him, so he had had to learn and reign it in. The only reason Dean wasn't as stern as Michael was that he wasn't inv

ulnerable and had suffered from the simplest human needs, so he had learned not only that every life mattered, but why they mattered.

Then, there had been Raphael. He had turned wrong over the millenia, Chuck couldn't deny that, but he still felt something warm in his chest, during that little, very little time when his third son had left Heaven to kick Lilith's ass, and had almost gotten there. And the second time, when Raphael had actually stood in the same room as him... even if the moment had been quite marred by the fact that the idiot was obliterating Castiel. Chuck had felt bad for standing, read "quivering", there without stopping Raphael but he had to stay in character. And it hadn't stopped him from bringing back the kid, once Raphael was well out of sight.

Had he seen Gabriel, too, Chuck would have almost felt like it was a last chance before the End of Time. Almost, because he was in disguise, and even if Dean and Sam were literal translations of Michael and Lucifer into human beings, they weren't his sons.

So yes, it wasn't false that God had become Chuck Shurley to be part of the events.

But it was far from the whole truth.

Because all that, he could have done it just by pretending to be someone more normal, or even a hunter, who knows! But no, he had chosen to be a Prophet of the Lord. That couldn't be just anyone: a birth was needed. Obvious, but important: a true Prophet of the Lord had to be born, because they were on a list in Heaven. They couldn't just pop up out of nowhere without raising suspicions.

Sure, being God, Chuck could have done it. But he had put up some rules, when he had created this world, that he couldn't overwrite without risking the order of the whole thing, or it'd have been too easy to change his mind and mess with the outcome. Like, no reconstructing archangels in less than a year, limits to how much you can mess with Time, no touching the unknown zones between the realms where the reapers got rid of the souls they really didn't like, free will cannot be ignored... And stay out of divine business since you made it work that way for a reason.

So, it'd have been a hassle, and God really needed an excuse to do what he had decided to do. That is, to become the Prophet of Himself, Chuck Shurley Lord of... Wait. Not the point.

The real reason to Chuck Shurley's birth, the real reason why God had wanted to become seemingly no more than a human, beginning at the very beginning of a human life, was simple: God had been many things to many people. A brother, a father, even the Lord. But he had never been a son.

And when his slightly surprised human father had held him in his arms, at Chuck's birth, God had, for the first time, felt what it was to be someone's son.


	4. Scorched Wings-1

_So, here is the first chapter of 'Scorched Wings', as you can find it it said story:_

* * *

 _This story will be the main part of a story, 'Of grave and Blood'. It's mostly John-centric. And, while I'm at it, you know the Michael-is-Dean stories? Well, there it's a John-is-Michael story._

* * *

 _Yeah, I know, I won't be making many friends with this story, with all the hate out there._  
 _First of all, John Winchester IS NOT my favorite character, but when I saw all the hate, I just turned my Michael-is-Dean idea around, because it was more interesting, and John needs a little help._

 _Really, we saw John a maximum of, what, 3 hours perhaps, in more than 200 eps. I don't know how everyone came to hate him that much, when we really don't know much about him._  
 _And putting all the evil in the world on John when defending Lucifer or Crowley of all people seems to me to be a bit hypocritical. He didn't try to murder the whole human race, nor to take over Purgatory, did he? Sure, I can defend Lucifer and Crowley, say that they had a difficult childhood and everything, but that doesn't erase everything they did. That only put their actions in perspective._

 _I'm not saying that my take on John Winchester is completely canon, only that it's canon-compliant ( I try, if anything ). Many hate stories about John just conveniently forget some canon moments, while highlighting, possibly overreading, some others._  
 _I'll try to find the quotes later on, but here to begin with:_  
 _\- He never hit his sons (says Dean, when they meet the first other kid with demon blood)_  
 _\- He was there when his sons needed him, perhaps not emotionally, but as in dire situations (says Dean, too)_  
 _\- He did the best he could with what he had (says Sam, when with past John)_

 _And, I don't like how some people are ready to excuse some of Dean's and Sam's actions, because they know the circumstances, but can't for the life of them consider that John too had circumstances to deal with, just because the show doesn't say much about it._

 _So, if you managed to read the note without cursing me to Purgatory and back, perhaps you'll enjoy this story._  
 _If not, sorry for the language, but get the fuck out; I don't want to hear your hate if you're not even going to consider what I just wrote._

* * *

 **Chapter 1: That Gate of Hell**

Alastair had left only half an hour before.

Possibly. John couldn't exactly tell, down here, in Hell, how much time passed. It felt like decades since he had sold his soul to Azazel, in exchange for Dean's life. It felt as if one century or two had passed with him chained to that rack. It was a long, long time to be tortured.

But was there another option? Not that he knew of.

Alastair, the chief torturer of Hell, came down to John's rack every ten hours approximately, and there he spent one or two hours before leaving to see and torture a bunch of other souls. From time to time, the demon would ask him if he wouldn't rather get down that rack, even at the price of torturing other souls. Even at the price of John becoming a demon himself.

The still-too-human soul didn't see the point.

He had condemned himself to an eternity in Hell, for his son. He had done it, knowing full well what was awaiting him down there. He had done it because it needed to be done.

Not because Dean deserved to live, which was the case, obviously, but still, not for that reason. Not because John had been blissfully ignorant of what was going on down here, because he had known, more so than most people, what a place in Hell really meant. Not because he had thought he could endure, because no one could endure the torture of Hell for eternity.

He had exchanged his soul and life for Dean's survival, because it had to be done. Because someone needed to keep Sam in line, to make sure that his second son wouldn't go down the wrong path, as the demons had planned. Because someone needed to be there if it happened nonetheless, and Sam needed to be killed. Because John knew what was happening down here, and he would never let either of his sons damn themselves to what he was currently enduring. Because he wouldn't let his son become a demon, even if it meant that Sam had to die; Sam would be better off in Heaven than on Earth, living but according to the demons' plans, anyway.

John would rather be the one paying the ultimate price, here in Hell, even if it meant that he should be seen as the villain who had ordered his oldest son to kill his younger brother.

He'd have liked to have some more time to explain, but Azazel hadn't given him such an opportunity. And perhaps he hadn't said enough to Dean. Perhaps his son would understand an order, when he had only been stating the facts, that John wasn't going to sacrifice the world for either of his sons, not with the guilt such an act always brought, not on the one who sacrificed, but on the ones who had been saved so. Perhaps he should have said something nicer to Dean, something else than that there wasn't anything that mattered besides keeping Sam in the right path, but then he wouldn't have the time to say what was the most important.

John was aware that he hadn't been very comforting in his last moments. But try it, and only then could you judge. When you have only a few more seconds to live, you can't afford to be picky over your choice of words. And he hadn't exactly had much time for a better explanation.

There were many things John Winchester regretted in his life. And if not having been able to say more was something he regretted, he did not regret having chosen this amongst all the things he could have said. Sparing Dean's feelings served no purpose if it got the boy killed.

John'd rather be the hated father of two living sons than the perfect father of two deceased children.

It hadn't been easy, all these years, but he had managed to keep them alive and give them the keys to survival in a world that he knew wouldn't leave the kids alone. If he hadn't been quite the best father as a result, so be it. The best father, who was always there for his children and supported them and did everything with a bright smile, it wasn't him. The best father in the eyes of society, though, John was quite certain that man wouldn't have been to keep his sons alive and clear from Hell's plans.

The human soul chuckled bitterly on his rack, blood dripping slowly, evenly, from his sliced mouth, as he remembered all the times people had looked at him with that judgmental glint in their eyes, even the people from the hunting community. As if they'd have done any better.

Maybe the other hunters had a choice to go back to a normal life and live as if the supernatural didn't exist. Maybe they could pretend it was all a nightmare, or perhaps they could simply take care of what was lurking in the shadows around their town, while innocents people died in other places. Maybe it was the case, for them.

But it wasn't the case for the Winchesters.

During the first years after Mary's death, John hadn't simply wanted revenge. Sure, he wouldn't have said no to crucifying Azazel and turning him into minced meat, but it wasn't what had been motivating him to learn about the supernatural side of the world. What had really brought him into hunting, was the mere idea that there were things, out there, that he knew nothing about, and that they could very well attack Dean and Sam too, one day, and then, he'd have no idea of what to do.

John had done his best to take care of his sons alone, and to research the lore without really going out there, at first. He wasn't suicidal, and not everything in the hearsay was reliable. He wasn't going to go and hunt monsters and ghosts until he could really take care of those with only a minimal risk of dying and leaving the kids alone.

It hadn't been exactly easy.

Then one day, he had met a family of hunters. The wife had helped with the boys, the husband had taught him a few tricks of the business. He had really started to go after the things in the dark around Sam's third birthday. Then the Winchesters had moved on.

He had met Bobby, the Harvelles, Elkins, and a few others. He had learned more and more, to be able to defend his sons if needs be. Yet with each monster he got, with each threat that disappeared, his stomach clenched a bit more. There were so many evils out there, so many monsters and curses, that he knew he would never master them all, defeat them all. There was bound to be one who'd escape his vigilance, one he wouldn't be able to stop before it was too late.

And the sights he had seen over the years, the dripping blood, the dead bodies, the mutilated children and the women dried of their blood, it was always worse. There was always a new horror to find about. There was always another morbid show he could imagine with his sons as the main victims.

It terrified him.

John had learned and hunted more, and more, and more, not only because he wanted to avenge Mary, but also, but mainly because with each evil he took out, it was one less that could befall upon his sons.

He hadn't always been kind and present for his children, he knew that. He had tried to be, but it hadn't always been easy, not when he looked at the sleeping kids when he woke up, and his first thought was that he wasn't sure they were still alive.

Then one day, as he had been trying to find a missing girl, taken away by fairies, as he had understood later on, Sam had seen him talk to the girl's younger sister, crying. The motel had been only two houses over the family's house, and perhaps it had been a mistake to stay here, but the point was, Sam had seen him, and when John had come back to the motel, the boy had asked his father what it had been about. Of course, he hadn't said the whole truth. Just that the girl's sister had disappeared.

Sam had asked him if John could help the family. He had said he was trying to. And Sam had asked him to please, save her.

John had never found the older girl. No one ever came back from being taken by fairies.

Then it hadn't been only about making sure that Dean and Sam would live. It had been about saving as many people as he could, too.

Perhaps John had a bit of a hero complex. He wouldn't deny it, if it was the case. But what else was he supposed to do? Ignore the truth, ignore the people who got hurt every day, ignore the fact that the demons were after his second son? Pretend that everything was alright? Act as if one day, they weren't going to come back for Sam?

The normal people, even the other hunters, they had no idea of what he had to deal with. They could criticize him as much as they wanted, it wouldn't change the facts. John had been dealt a poor hand at the cards of life; he was just trying to do his best, even when it wasn't easy. Perhaps he wasn't the easiest person to deal with, but he had never given up.

He had also never told anyone about what he had learned, years after years, from various demons. About what he had found out, about Sam's destiny. Bobby would have said he was going paranoid, or that he was making himself a victim; and that was only Bobby, who wasn't completely obtuse.

What was the point in telling the Winchesters secrets, when no one would believe him? John'd rather be the villain of this story, bear the weight of the few things he knew, and let the others think he was a bastard, if it allowed his sons to keep a bit of hope.

Sam had always wanted a normal life. If John suceeded in killing Azazel, perhaps his son would have gotten his normal life without ever knowing why exactly the demon had had to die. It didn't matter if Sam thought he was the worst father in the world, if it meant that he could live.

Obviously, it hadn't happened that way.

The yellow-eyed demon hadn't died, and John was in Hell.

Alastair came to visit every ten hours or so.

That was John's world, now.

He couldn't care less about Alastair's offer, to get off the rack. John had no desire to go and torture another soul, not when he already had much to reproach himself. Yes, the torture hurt. If he had a better choice, he'd chose not to endure it. He didn't have a better choice.

The trick wasn't to endure, though. Eternity was a long time, and rejecting the offer out of nobility could only work for so long, when in the hands of Alastair. No, John wasn't enduring, not per se.

He was there, being tortured, and that was all. There was no point stopping it, if it was to further damage himself, though in another way. He'd rather be on the rack.

The other souls didn't seem to see that, strangely.

Either way, Alastair had left John's rack for about half an hour when the whole of Hell shook like in an earthquake. John looked up, slowly, ever so slowly that several drops of blood rolled down his cheeks before his eyes fell on the large rift of light, far away and above.

The demons working on the other racks looked up too, and for a blessed moment, no scream was to be heard in the Pit. They were all looking up, at the crack of pure light.

A whisper. It was all it took.

"A Gate is open, my friends!"

Pretty much every demon in Hell then rushed to the gate, eager to go to Earth without having to use the normal channels. The tremors had broken down several jails of exorcism, where the demons who had been exorcised ended up, even the strongest ones. They were all on their way to Earth. The ones who'd manage to get out would be free until the next exorcism.

The souls on the racks watched, but they didn't seem to understand what was going on. John wondered why. It wasn't that hard to figure out.

But what really mattered to him, right now, was that the rift called to him too. No demons were left to watch after the souls, which wasn't all that surprising. They were tied up on their racks, after all.

John still had to look after his sons, up there. Maybe he couldn't be the perfect father, and maybe he couldn't solve all their problems, but he would do the best he could.

There was no point in wasting such an opportunity.

He didn't pay much attention to how the chains came loose, to how he somehow managed to get down the rack. His mind was occupied with only one thought: to get up there, and out of here. He had a feeling that whatever had happened to open that Gate of Hell, his sons were right in the middle of it. It made sense, somehow.

Almost as if he was supposed to know that.

A demon, a bit late in the rush to Earth, caught sight of the wandering soul. His instincts were contradictory, between going upside, and taking care of the soul. But he recognized John Winchester's soul, and he decided it'd be more satisfactory to get him back on his rack. Besides, the bright light that still came from the tainted soul was upsetting him.

"Where do you think you are..."

The soul turned to look at the demon, and the demon took a step back.

The soul's eyes had flickered golden, for an instant. Like Azazel's. But the demon had other, more important things to deal with right now.

Because apparently, the soul knew how to use its energy, which was very unusual unless for witches. The soul also was very, very strong. Stronger than any soul the demon had ever seen. The soul's right hand closed onto the demon's throat, and it hurt like hell.

"Take me to the Gate."


	5. Blood on our hands - Soldier of Fate

_Dean comes back from a hunt, covered in blood. It doesn't bother him, or, not that much, to have to wash his hands._

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 _I'm going to do a serie of small stories like that, about characters from various fandoms, all of them killers, none of them monsters... or so they hope. On ff, though, these stories will be in their respective fandom one-shots collections; here, Books of Lore._

* * *

 **Blood on our hand - Soldier of Fate**

Dean closed the door behind him, his mind far, far away from the blood stains on his hands and clothes. He had gotten too used to be covered in blood, and he would have worried about it, if he wasn't already past that point of self-questioning. These days, the only things he cared about after such an event was whether or not he'd have to get rid of his clothes, and if anyone had seen him. Being covered in blood didn't feel like a problem to him anymore. The consequences were, but not the fact.

He moved to the sink of the motel's bathroom, and put a hand on the tap. Blood dripped from his middle finger, and splashed an angry scarlet over the dubious white of the sink. Dean stopped moving, his eyes on the red liquid. For a moment, he couldn't even remember to what kind of monster the blood belonged to. It just looked like human blood, after all.

Sam's actions made some kind of noise in the bedroom, on the other side of the wall, and Dean jolted out of his trance.

Slowly, he looked up from his bloodied hand, and found himself staring at his own reflection, tainted in shades of red.

The man in the mirror looked like Dean, but painted with blood. It had been some time since the last occurrence, he thought. It wasn't everyday that a monster was this messy to deal with.

He looked at his left cheek, and wiped a dash of blood with his thumb. His jacket was a mess, but hopefully it wouldn't be completely irrecuperable; because of the rain, Dean had taken a waterproof one. His jeans, on the other hand, were good for the trash can.

He really had to wash his hands first thing, though.

Yeah, Dean was going to do that, and then he'd think about the state his clothes were in.

And, obviously, he'd ignore the real issue with being covered in blood and not caring in the least, as he always did.

After all, this blood came from a beast who only looked human in appearance.

It wasn't even about being a monster or not, actually. Some monsters were human enough to try and live peacefully, without killing unless they had no other choice. Dean had learned it over the years, that not all monsters were inhuman. That some humans were trully monsters too, as it was.

But unlike Sam, who always tried to see the good in everyone and everything, as long as their actions didn't affect him directly, Dean wasn't an optimistic fool. Yes, monsters and humans couldn't be told apart that easily.

It didn't mean that exceptions were the rule. It'd be a bit contradictory, if anything. And semantics aside, things were not that way in reality, point.

Most monsters were monsters.

And someone needed to be there to get rid of them.

Dean didn't particularly like killing things. He wasn't against doing what was needed, true, but he didn't rejoice in being a killer. This blood on his hands, it was here because someone needed to do the job, not because he enjoyed it.

If Dean did it, perhaps it would keep the hands of others clean. Perhaps it had saved lives. Perhaps his innocence had been worth something, all in all.

He only hoped he would never get confused on the reasons he was doing what he did.

Because that blood, running down his fingers as the water swirled it away, down in the sink and into oblivion, it might be a murderous monster's blood, but it still looked damn human. Someone who didn't know Dean, someone who didn't know why he was doing what he did, would only see a murderer, if they were to look at him right now.

Dean knew who he was, and why he was a hunter.

He only hoped he wouldn't ever forget. He hoped that he'd never look at a mirror, and see only a murderer in the stead of his reflection. He hoped this blood, that already seemed familiar and normal for him, it'd never become the blood of an innocent.

But no matter his fears, no matter his doubts, he would not change his ways. He would not regret the lives he had taken. He would not forsake the lives of innocents for his peace of mind.

This blood, it had to be on someone's hands. It might as well be on his.

As usual, Dean washed the blood off his hands.


End file.
